


Priest of the Blind Truth

by idigam



Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: Avacyn mention, Blind Eternities, Grislebrand mention, Innistrad, Skirsdag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6359509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idigam/pseuds/idigam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I introduce the oldest of my Planeswalkers, and Samoel is a raging nutter butter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Priest of the Blind Truth

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first fic based on my planeswalkers, one for each deck, Samoel here is the oldest based on the old monoblack thrull-sack deck I learned on back in the day. The deck's been rebuilt and incorporates a certain abbey in it's list.

Samoel strolled through the cathedral of Westvale Abbey, a beautiful thing, ornate with a massive series of Gothic arches holding it's ceiling in place. A large number of priests milling about cleaning, praying, and setting up for services. Stained glass windows depicted scenes of Avacyn saving the people of Innistrad from one horror or another. It looked and acted like any church on this wonderful plane. A grisled older man, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, one wouldn't know how ancient he truly was. Dressed in a foreign preachers garb, he looked almost a showman as much as a man of faith.

Samoel wasn't partial to planes, necessary evil that they were they cut him off from Truth. His bound eyes shifted slightly and he removed his hat in reverence, staring slightly past the skin of the world to the churning unreality of God, the Blind Eternities. Beautiful and terrible, truly, they are Truth, a real god, with innumerable angels to serve it. From the mightiest Titan to the lowliest spawn, and he chosen prophet of this wonderful Chaos. “Blessed are we,” He said under his breath. “Blessed are we heretics of the Spark, chosen to walk among you and your angels, to touch the places you hold in your infinite bosom and nurture in you magnificence.” His prayer was brief for it was bearers of the heretical spark that in their arrogance slew two of God's mighty Archangels. They would pay dearly for their transgression. Samoel smiled, they would pay and he wouldn't have to lift a finger. In saving one wretched Plane removed from Truth's light, they doomed so much more. “Mayhaps I can let these heathens do my glorious work for me, and be restored unto our lords kingdom with naught of mine own effort.”

He smiled but shook his head, it wouldn't do for the Prophet of the Blind Eternities to slack. Today however he had to play a different kind of prophet, such was an easy fix. Ah Demons, so unreliable and yet, here and now, so useful. “We gather here, in a decrepit church of deceitful Avacyn who has abandoned us to the horrors, who even now slaughters our villages and strips us of our power.” The priests stopped what they were doing, any other chapel on Innistrad his words would be blasphemy of the highest order. Samoel looked over the assembled Skirsdag, dressed profanely in the robes of Avacyn. “Our prayers do not fall on such fickle ears, we are not stripped of power. No we are granted power!” The priests nodded in hushed agreement. “To whom do we owe this power? Who grants us his might that we may serve? Who has risen to claim power where others have failed? Grislebrand? Shegengar? Withengar? Who?” Hushed whispers barely audible “Ormendahl, Ormendahl, Ormendahl.” Samoel could barely contain his contempt, he channeled his disgust for them. “What was that? How do you expect our dread master to hear you if your words do not even reach an old man?” The clergy fell to the ground prostrate and shouted in fervid chanting the Profane Prince's name. “ORMENDAHL, ORMENDAHL, ORMENDAHL!”

Deep beneath the stones of the abbey, below soil and bedrock of Innistrad, a presence stirred, unfathomable in it's malignancy. Pure wonderful black mana seeped from the ground, mana that Samoel had long grown used to. This was the mana he specialized in, though it was a far cry from the pure clean mana of Truth. Scoured of such imperfection as color. “Ah,” Samoel thought to himself, “five dead to call the dread prince, but they will serve as sacrifice to a higher being.” He held out the token that those to be sacrificed would wear, a pure white opal, a shining sapphire of deep blue, a pitch black piece of obsidian, a flickering polished garnet, and a vibrant green emerald. One for each, that all will be one, and none, in the non-existence of Truth. “Amen” he concluded with an almost feral growl to his voice. A skittering next to him caught his attention, one of his thrulls with a missive from one of the smaller cells. Apparently Thraben's been getting bold in their attacks. Well, if new sacrifices were so eager to line up, what kind of Shepard would he be to turn away an eager flock? Samoel called the Aether around himself and shifted just far enough towards Truth to traverse the distance he needed.


End file.
